


Pianette

by SpaceHobo



Category: Hannibal Lecter (Hopkins Movies)
Genre: F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 11:04:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17303453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceHobo/pseuds/SpaceHobo
Summary: In the shadow of Paris' most famous landmark, a fugitive and his lover share a moment.





	Pianette

_”Is she a princess?”_

Their lips parted from one anothers, foreheads touching. Her breath was warm on his neck as she rested against him.

A little girl; all runny nose and over-large winter coat but who’s wide, questioning eyes held a startling intelligence. For a moment, his mind overlayed Mischa’s features over those of the questioner, though Mischa had been far younger when she had been lost to him all those years ago.

The little girl’s mother said something under her breath, peering apologetically at the elegantly dressed couple her daughter had decided to accost. Beside him, Clarice’s manicured fingers intertwined with his own. Her touch grounded him, her warmth kept the ghosts at bay, her voice made the black rage subside whenever it reared it’s hideous head. Likewise; his arms around her made the ghostly accusations of her inadequacy fade away like vapor. His intense gaze upon her when she spoke in turn spoke volumes about how much he valued what she had to say, no matter how intellectual or how inane, his attention never wavered. 

Their lives had become irrevocably entwined now for decades like the gnarled root system of an ancient tree; ever since her well meaning instructor at the academy had sent her off like a lamb to slaughter. They lived however they felt like living wherever they felt like travelling. By the time Clarice had been born in a small coal mining town in West Virginia, he had enough funds stashed away to retire several times over. 

Sometimes they lived in effete sophistication; their monthly expenditures far outstripping that which some might spend in a year. These times were filled with experiences and gifts that would only have been dreams to a younger Clarice. Even though this was her norm, she cherished each and every moment and offering from her husband, knowing it had been meticulously chosen specifically for her. 

This care extended to the times they lived in relative normality. When they agreed to lie low for a few months or even a few years at a time. Each perhaps taking some mid-level job and endeavoring to survive off their earnings while they lived and paid rent in whatever small town they had landed in. Truth be told, Clarice felt happiest when this was how they lived. When they walked into an empty apartment, all white walls and blank slate, having been given carte blanche to decorate as she wished. She made each of these little boxes in which they lived a home, bringing light and life with the things she bought and collected. The warmth she found in those moments of domestic banality made everything worth it in the long run. Curled together on a worn couch, watching tv on a second-hand set while all around them they could hear the sounds of people living their lives. At the end of their time they would donate or secretly gift the things they did not require in their next life to the people who needed them most. This had been Hannibal’s idea and when he had suggested it, her smile had been like the sun. 

Clarice stood within his arms. They had stopped on the corner of the Pont d’lena in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. She had seen it many times before, but it was her favourite thing to see in the evening, lit like a Christmas tree and shining like beacon into the night. She gazed up at the ever-changing face of her husband. They had both undergone drastic transformations over the years to maintain their freedom but she would know his eyes anywhere. Especially when they were only ever for her. Ever fixed, ever filled with all consuming adoration for her. 

The child was still awaiting an answer from the tall older man who gazed down at his younger, elegantly dressed companion. Hannibal brushed a thumb across Clarice’s cheek, careful not to smudge her makeup. The king’s ransom of jewelry sparkled in her ears and around her throat. She was intoxicating to him whether she was dressed in an Alexander McQueen evening gown or second-hand jeans from a yard sale and one of his old shirts.

A sidewalk busker began to place something on a battered violin and his eyes briefly travelled to the musician before resting momentarily again on the child who’s question had interrupted their moment. 

“No, child.” he said softly, eyes returning to meet his wife’s gaze. “She is a queen.”


End file.
